


Kilt Donation

by wilddragonflying



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Kilts, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roleplay, Sam calls Dean "lass", Sam in a kilt, Wincest - Freeform, and grows a Scottish accent, kilt!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean left to get pie.</p><p>When he came back, he got Sam.</p><p>In a kilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kilt Donation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the kilt!fic I wrote for Wren's Erotic Library on tumblr(wrenseroticlibrary). Got a decent reaction, so I figured I'd post it here, too. :')

"Sam, what’re you—" Dean’s jaw dropped as he took in the broad expanse of Sam’s back, muscles clenching as his little brother jumped in shock. "Jesus, Sammy, are you—  _are you wearing a kilt_?”

Sam turned to face him, his expression vaguely guilty as one hand came up and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously as he faced Dean. “Um… Yes? I found it, and I’ve always wanted to try one on, and, well—”

Faced with the image of Sam’s naked torso and arms, his calves exposed under that plaid kilt, Dean thought he actually did a pretty damn good job of getting coherent words out of his mouth that didn’t sound like  _fuck me while wearing the kilt, dear Jesus God please._  ”Dude, and you gave  _me_  shit for wearing the dead-guy robe. You do know that—” The furious blush igniting Sam’s features stopped Dean’s words in their tracks. He gaped at Sam, his dick twitching and starting to harden in his pants. “Sammy,” he breathed, every muscle in his body clenched tight, “are you not wearing anything under that?”

"… Yes?" Sam’s expression cleared slightly, now that Dean wasn’t making fun of him— Dean figured Sam could puzzle out how Dean was currently feeling about the whole kilt situation just by glancing down to where Dean’s cock was currently straining against his zipper.

“ _Jesus._ ”

"Nope, just Sam."

"Fuck you, Sam— or better yet, c’mere and fuck me." Dean was aware that he sounded absolutely wrecked, desperate, but, hey. Who the hell wouldn’t, not with Sam standing there, half-naked(practically naked, considering the Scots liked a breeze under their kilts), all those muscles displayed proudly? All Sam needed was a pair of bracers, a sword hanging from a low-slung belt across his hips, and the youngest Winchester would look like a guy from the cover of one of those smutty romance novels from the Adult Fiction section of the library. Not that Dean ever looked at those, of course.

Sam shifted on his feet, his gaze turning heated, and Dean’s eyes flickered past him to the open box behind Sam. “Anything else in that box?” he asked, stepping forward.

"A couple of things," Sam admitted, crossing his arms across his chest, a move that made the muscles bulge unfairly. Why was Sam the hot one? Dean could never pull off a kilt. Not like Sam could.

"What kind of things?"

"Remember when we talked about a sex dungeon?" A frisson of arousal chased a shiver down Dean’s spine, the arousal curling up low in his gut at the tone of Sam’s voice.

"I think I found their stash."

***

They didn’t even make it to the box the first time.

No, Dean climbed Sam like a tree, and Sam took Dean against the wall. Later, they were laying on the floor, and Dean reached up to poke Sam in the chest. “We’d better get some more lube,” he said. “That was my last packet.”

Sam snorted. “Figures. Finally find the sex stuff, and you run out of lube.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me that _you_ —Mr. Always-Prepared-Because-I-Did-The-Research—don’t have any extra lube with you?”

Sam flushed. “I kind of—found the kilt right after you left and changed in my room? I didn’t think you’d be back so soon; you said you were going to get pie.”

“I did get pie,” Dean grinned. “But I actually brought it home with me, cause I wanted to eat with my favorite lover.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Your favorite lover?” he echoed. “So you’ve got another one?”

Dean stared at Sam uncomprehendingly, but only for a moment; he spotted the spark of heat in Sam’s gaze, and he licked his lips tauntingly. “And if I do?” he challenged.

Sam let his voice drop, almost into a Scottish burr. “Then Aye’ll have to remind ye that you’re mine, lass.”

Dean shivered, pressing closer to Sam. “And just how would a man like you remind me?” he questioned, shifting so that he was sitting on top of Sam’s thighs, his knees bracketing Sam’s hips. Sam still had the kilt on, and it looked only a little worse for wear—a few more wrinkles pressed into the fabric, but Dean would iron the damn thing himself if it meant that Sam would wear it again.

Sam sat up, a gleam entering his eyes. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist, his lips just barely brushing the shell of Dean’s ear as he used that unfairly deep, rumbling voice to murmur, “Go back tae our room and wait for me.”

Dean scrambled to his feet. He would do anything Sam told him to, as long as Sam used _that_ tone of voice. It did delicious things to his insides, that little hint of accent roughening Sam’s voice. Sam gave him an encouraging smirk, and Dean turned around and bolted so fast for their room, he thought he heard a _pop_ to signal he was entering warp.

***  
When Dean reached their bedroom, he dithered just inside the doorway for a moment. He worried his lower lip, chewing it almost to the point of rawness, and then decided that he should get the lube, stick it on the nightstand, and then get under the covers. He squirmed under the sheets, the fabric dragging against his cock softer than the kilt had, and he found himself wondering what Sam was doing.

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

Dean heard footsteps outside, in the hallway, and he held his breath, waiting eagerly. Sam didn’t disappoint; it was only through sheer force of will(what little he had left) that Dean managed to keep from outright gasping. As it was, he was gonna be fishing for his jaw before he could speak.

Sam stepped around the corner, still wearing the kilt, except he had apparently found some more accessories to go with it. He had bracers strapped to his forearms, and a sword strapped to a sheath that cut diagonally across his back, secured with an ‘X’ made of dark, aged-black leather that criss-crossed over his chest, highlighting his muscles and also darkening the skin there to a deeper tan. Sam’s hair, the hair Dean was always teasing him about and threatening to cut off, had been slightly smoothed out—now he looked less like a Highlander who’d just tumbled out of wench-warmed bed, and more like one just off the mountain, ready to tumble into bed with a willing lass.

Dean finally managed to locate his jaw, only to promptly lose it once again as he finally recognized what Sam was carrying: rope, the kind soaked in holy water and blessed in Archaic Latin.

“Holy shit,” Dean managed to breathe, even though speaking used what little oxygen he’d managed to drag into his lungs.

“Is that any way for a lass to speak?” Sam chided, stepping closer. The kilt moved enticingly with Sam, and Dean found his gaze drawn to it once more. Damn Sam for finding all of Dean’s kinks, even the ones he didn’t know he had.

Dean swallowed roughly, dragging his eyes back up to Sam’s face to meet Sam’s gaze head-on, playing along. “I wouldn’t know, my lord, as I’m no lass.”

Sam chuckled, tugging the sheets down and off of the bed, then grabbing Dean’s ankles and yanking him down so that he was lying on the bed, legs spread. “Aye, I can tell by what lies atween your legs that you’re no lass, though your face would tell a different tale,” he rumbled, quickly moving up the bed to tie Dean’s wrists to the bedposts, leaving him unable to get away; he could still move, but his movement was limited, and he couldn’t fight back. Sam paused after he finished tying Dean up, his face softening. “You remember what to say if you want to stop?”

Dean nodded, smiling up at Sam. “I remember,” he reassured Sam, stretching up, asking for a kiss. Sam obliged, and when he pulled back, Dean let out a breath, trying to decide what would get him what he wanted fastest.

“My lord, I believe you said something about reminding me who I belong to?”

***

Sam pulled back, his gaze flickering down Dean’s body, spread open for Sam. Dean felt every look land, light and fast as a butterfly’s wing, making him shiver in anticipation. He licked his lips, the movement drawing Sam’s eyes back to Dean’s face. “My lord?” Dean questioned.

“I love it when you call me that,” Sam growled, leaning down and kissing Dean, hot, hard, and dirty, his tongue licking across the seam of Dean’s lips. Dean groaned, opening his mouth for Sam, letting Sam in, like he’d let Sam into every part of him since he was four. When Sam pulled back, Dean let out an involuntary whine, earning another chuckle from his brother. “Such an eager lass.”

“For you only,” Dean managed to gasp out, his hands twisting against the ropes, aching with the need to touch Sam. But of course Sam wouldn’t give that to him; not right now. Sam liked being bossy in bed.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Sam straightened, pulling the sheath and harness off, but leaving the kilt and bracers on. “I don’t fancy that sword smacking me in the arse as I fuck you,” he murmured in explanation, moving so he was positioned over Dean, his hands roaming over Dean’s chest.

Dean flushed, arching into Sam’s touch. He was definitely getting Sam back for this later, but right now, he was too achingly hard to care. “M’lord, please,” he gasped out, throwing his head back, exposing his neck.

Sam growled, leaning forward to bite at the curve of Dean’s neck and jaw as he let his hand roam down farther, skirting around Dean’s cock, dipping down behind Dean’s balls and pressing one fingertip against his hole. Dean gasped and bucked his hips at the touch, trying to get more pressure, but Sam just grinned against Dean’s skin and pulled away, reaching for the lube on the nightstand. “I don’t think you’re wet enough, my love. I think I need tae help ye with that.”

Dean couldn’t hear the _pop_ of the cap over his thundering heart; Jesus, it was _so unfair_ , the things Sam’s voice _did_ to him with that accent. “Please,” he whimpered, tilting his hips invitingly, his ass clenching at the thought of Sam fucking him again, fucking him in that kilt.

“Such a wee, needy thing, aren’t ye?” Sam murmured, pressing a slow, soft kiss to Dean’s lips as he tenderly rubbed one lube-slick finger around Dean’s entrance before pressing inside, swallowing Dean’s gasp of pleasure. “All ye need is tae be filled, aye?”

“Aye, my lord,” Dean gasped, twisting his hips, trying to take Sam’s finger in deeper. “Please, more,” he begged, looking at Sam pleadingly.

Sam chuckled and obliged. He worked Dean open methodically, murmuring praises in Dean’s ear, breathing his adoration into Dean’s skin as Dean twisted, writhed, begged, and pleaded for more, until he could stand it no longer, bursting out, “ _Please, dear God, please, I need you inside me right now_!”

“All ye have tae do is ask,” Sam grinned, shifting onto his knees and pulling the cloth of the kilt aside, lifting Dean’s legs up to wrap around his waist. Dean eagerly locked his ankles behind Sam’s back, fucking his hips against Sam’s cock, needy little noises escaping his throat. Sam shushed him with a kiss as he positioned himself at Dean’s entrance before slowly pushing in, lifting his head only to growl out, “Sweet Jesus, lass, ye’re so tight inside.”

Once Sam bottomed out, Dean threw his head back with a gasp, his hands clenching into fists as he adjusted to Sam’s girth. Once he was adjusted, he shifted, circling his hips. “Please, m’lord,” he whispered, hesitantly looking Sam in the eye. “Move.”

And, sweet baby Jesus in his cradle, did Sam ever. He rocked into Dean, slow, languid thrusts that dragged across his prostate, eliciting sparks and shivers of pleasure all through his body, even in places Sam _wasn’t_ touching him. Sam quickly upped the ante, though; he thrust into Dean harder, faster, deeper, and Dean moaned and took it all, loved every second of it. How could he not? Sam was fucking him while wearing a _kilt_ with fucking _bracers_ on. He was like every dime store Highlander romance novel come to life, and that accent—that damned accent he kept bringing into play, murmuring shit like “so tight, lass”; “such a bonnie lass”; “ye’re all mine, lass, mine, and no one else’s, ken?”—would be the _fucking death_ of Dean.

“Please, m’lord, touch me—I’m so close, I just need—“

“Shh, shh, my love. Aye’ll take good care of ye,” Sam whispered, still fucking into Dean—reverting back to the slow rolls of the beginning—as he sat up, reaching between their bodies to wrap a hand around Dean’s cock, stroking it slowly. Dean’s head thrashed from side to side, wanton noises falling unheeded from his lips as he strained first into Sam’s fist, then back onto his cock, the pleasure assaulting him from both fronts, and he couldn’t even tell if they were right side up or floating upside down in a goddamned cave, all he cared about was Sam, fucking him, jacking him, and—

“ _Sammy!_ ”

Dean came with a shout, his back arching, hands tugging uselessly against his restraints as he shot, coating Sam’s hand and his stomach in sticky white come, clenching around Sam’s cock.

Sam lifted his covered hand to Dean’s lip, the command unspoken, communicated in the smoldering pits of his gaze as he locked his with Dean’s, and Dean eagerly sucked Sam’s fingers into his mouth, cleaning them, and licking across Sam’s palm, gathering all of his come from Sam’s skin.

“Christ, lass, ye’re such a wanton, begging for it, ye need it so badly,” Sam growled, his hips snapping forward a couple more times before he stilled, coming with a sharp jerk of his hips, Dean’s name spilling from his lips.

After Sam was done, he slowly and carefully pulled back, straightening his kilt before collapsing onto Dean’s chest. Dean let out a disgruntled “oomph,” and Sam chuckled. They were quiet for a moment, and then Dean spoke. “So. Kilts.”

“Yup,” Sam murmured, already sounding half-asleep.

“Apparently they do it for you and me.” Dean tilted his chin down, trying to get a better look at Sam. He bucked his hips, jostling Sam sharply. “Hey, fucker, don’t you go to sleep on me yet; you need to untie me.”

Sam just let out a grumpy noise, wrapping his arms around Dean and burrowing in closer. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling; really, why did he expect anything different?

Still.

The kilt was _definitely_ going to be seeing a lot more action in the very, _very_ near future.


End file.
